onward into the day

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“Love is the root of everything….Love, or the lack of it.”

— Fred Rogers 

 

like glass resonant in trembled anger

the fear is outrageous and constant

one horrific event erases the next

in an infinite succession of bomb blasts

bludgeoning attention to a bloody slurry

only the noise of the moment matters

and it does not matter even then

but only in the silence it creates in you

the silence of the possibility of dissent

so one must learn to hear without

hearing deafly to see again without

seeing blindly to go with open trust

across the shattered shards of glass

onward into the darkening night

 

(June 23, 2018)

Those Who Watch the Fall

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A thick malaise slurs

the day with inarticulate

desires. There is nothing

but dissatisfaction beneath

each prime move. He slips

about the house finding solace

in unread books, in thoughts

of what he might have done.

 

The pointed questions come:

Why he dawdles over trivialities?

Why he quakes a pauper to his ideals?

Will the last glass of wine be his cause?

Will the safety of his status quo

be the death and guilt of all?

 

(June 18, 2018)

Zeitgeist Frog

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A deep resonance in waves

flows through my walls

as if they did not exist;

and, I am set atremble

like the wings of a butterfly

on a bit of Queen Anne’s Lace.

 

Thus fear inculcates the normal

day to day rituals, casually,

like friends meeting for lunch.

I cannot control my shaking.

I have become thin glass

singing in harmony

with the tremulous cacophony;

until I shatter like ice.

 

(April 29 2018)

Transient Stability

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Some nights—too often now—I wake

Shouting, flailing from worry

Of someone lurking behind a fence—

Someone who claims to be no one

Who, when I wake to darkness again,

Is correct, if not mistaken—

I cannot find solace in sleep.

 

On the margins of the night, she sits

And knits in a rocking chair singing,

Weaving stories into the air. She’s not

Singing for me. Yet, I cannot speak

In dreams anymore. Night bruises

The day until my skin is broken

And blood spills as if in sacrifice.

 

(December 31, 2017)

Self-flagellation

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The familiar voice, a constant whip, rips

Bits of metaphorical flesh to fleck

The truculent air like a moist firework.

If one listens— the recriminations

Claw, maul, snag and cut to reshape the past;

The pressure provides us old forms to drape

Like silk shrouds upon the dead and dying.

 

I hear the fears of my world, the cold doubt

Niggling each broken phrase, like a dry catch

At the back of the throat. I do not know

What to believe, or which patch can still fix

The tattered fabrications, or which will

Transform into the next tale to be told

Before the voice begins to speak again.

 

(December 29, 2017)